


Little Gross Tomatoes

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer starts in Chicago once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Gross Tomatoes

**Author's Note:**

> Uploaded on my phone forgive the mistakes and wonky layout!

**One** :

On the Pink Line at the 18th street stop, they get on and sit side by side. In sync with each other they settle into their worn CTA seats at the same time. Taller one asks if the shorter one locked the front door. Shorter one replies with a huff that yes, for the fifth time, yes he did. Quit asking. The door won't get any more locked with them sitting here so either get up and get out or drop it.

Brothers? There is some resemblance.

A hand is placed on the shorter one's left knee. That hand gives a slight squeeze and then travels up to his thigh. Okay, not brothers.

Couples who have been together for a while start to look alike.

They've been together a long time. The taller one takes his hand off his partner. "You'll feel better after we eat," is stated in the most simple and all knowing way.

The shorter one grumbles and sits closer to the taller one. Not one inch is between them.

 

 **Two** :

At a paleta cart in Rogers Park two very tall men purchase one strawberry paleta and one coconut.

The shorter of the two--which isn't very short--pays with a wrinkled five dollar bill and does not accept change back. He smiles and takes his paletas, unwrapping them and taking a bite from the strawberry one first.

"Hey," the taller one complains as he witnesses the strawberry paleta being attacked. "Dean, you always do that." The laughter given in response, plus the way the man holds out the paleta from the other man's reach, says that they are brothers.

The taller one is the younger one just by his tone; the shorter one is obviously the eldest. He gets a punch in the shoulder.

"You don't gotta hit so hard, bitch," the eldest mutters and eats his own paleta while sulking.

As they're waking away, the youngest triumphantly smirks. Two paletas are devoured before they melt.

"Just shut up and eat your paleta, jerk."

 

 **Three** :

Superdawg is a Chicago institution. They have to go. It's a requirement for every true Chicagoan to eat a Superdawg.

They aren't even called hot dogs on the menu--they're superdawgs. There is a difference.

Sam can't completely understand why he's sitting on an uncomfortable blue patio seat outside of a tiny drive in. Dean is standing in line, occasionally looking back at Sam and giving him two thumbs up. The line inches forward and Dean looks back. He gives Sam the rock on sign. Sam can't be that excited over meat in casings; he rolls his eyes and sighs.

The Impala is parked at one of the drive in stalls but Dean likes to get out and order the food himself instead of having a car hop come out. Plus, no eating in baby. Ever. They can have sex in her and makes a mess with lube and come but god forbid there be food brought in. Sam took baby one day on an errand for work and ate a sandwich on the way. He got a mustard stain on the front seat--minimal in comparison to other things baby has been through--but Dean didn't speak to him for twenty four hours.

Sam watches Dean order their food at the window. His eyes crinkle. He makes a joke with the server. When he's given his number he steps aside and bounces in place. Every order that comes up to the window causes his eyes to light up. Finally, his number is called and you'd think the man just won gold bricks.

"I hate the little gross tomato," Sam grumbles as he opens his box.

"Fuck you, hand it over." Dean snatches the little gross green tomato from Sam's hand and eats it whole along with a handful of fries. His cheeks bulge with food and when Sam makes a comment about this he just smiles and keeps on chewing. Dean can eat two superdawgs in one sitting but Sam never finishes one so he scavenges from Sam's box.

"Don't eat so many peppers."

"I'll be fine."

"You had yours. You don't need mine, Dean, give it a rest."

"Ah, they're nothing. Not even that spicy."

Under the watchful eyes of the fifty foot tall waving hot dogs on the roof of the place, they finish up. Sam throws out their boxes and napkins. They make their way back to baby, who has been waiting patiently.

"Kiss me," Dean says, stepping in front of Sam. "Do it."

Sam's nose scrunches. "No," he blurts out. "You'll taste like relish and onions and those little gross tomatoes."

Something changes in Dean's eyes. Here we go. Quietly, calmly, Dean shrugs and murmurs, "Well, if you're too worried about what everyone else will think, that's fine. That's cool."

This is done on purpose and Sam knows it. And he still falls for it. With a yank, he pulls Dean in by his shirt and lays a firm, commanding kiss on his lips. Dean gasps and Sam takes advantage of the opening. He drives his tongue in and sweeps around for two seconds before shoving them apart.

He wipes his mouth and makes a face. "Blech," he huffs and opens his door. "You ate too many peppers."

"What?" Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. A second later he stiffens. "I did not! I'm fine!"

Ten minutes later, on the highway back home, Sam opens the glove compartment and pulls out a bottle of Tums.

He passes three over silently.

You're welcome.


End file.
